Handshakes and Looking Cool
by Wofl
Summary: John's looking for a new car and thinks salesmen are probably evil. Gen. Preseries. Oneshot


Paint of every color gleams bright in the early afternoon sun. Strings of flags waver in the summer breeze, calling to the highway that runs alongside, cheerfully begging passersby to _check out the great deals!_ The man in the sucker suit that walks the lot with him is beginning to grate on John's nerves. He babbles endlessly about the practicality of this model and the longevity of that one.

John knows the type. A fast talker looking for a quick buck; will spin any lie he has to in order to make the sale. John's picked up on three fibs the man's tried to tell him already, but plays dumb, pretends he doesn't know cars - if only so he can make the man feel like a complete jackass later. John wonders if the man might not actually be some terrible spawn of evil. He honestly wouldn't be surprised. He never did like salesmen. Couldn't trust 'em.

He shakes his head at every car the man drags him to look at. None of them seem to fit, not what he's looking for. Not that he really knows what he's looking for at all.

He just knows his current car is just about topped out for good - old and worn out - and looks soon to be forever out of commission and he wants something special to replace it. He definitely doesn't want the crapped out Ford the guy is showing him. He sighs and turns his head, mopping his brow and cursing the heat as he gazes down the line of cars, noting mileage and rust spots, year and model, color and price. And then, at the very end of the line, he spots it.

"That one," he says, without any hesitation, lifting a hand and pointing a finger. "Tell me about that one."

He makes his way towards it, steps sure, not really caring if the salesman keeps up. He's there in no time, running his hands over the blotched black paint, peering in the windows at the interior. It's kind of run down; still in great shape, just needs some maintenance, really. John can see beneath the blemishes right down the the core of the car's potential. John's lips quirk up into a sort of half smile and he moves around to the back, studying it from every angle.

"Oh sir, you don't want this one," Sucker Suit admonishes in a disgustingly condescending tone. A frown tugs at the corners of the man's mouth and his face screws up like someone who's just lost a big commission. A quick glance at the price tells John he probably has. It's cheap, almost surprisingly so, and it cements the conviction that's drawing in his mind. Already he's itching to get the hood open, to tune it up and smooth out the kinks. "Wouldn't you be happier with a, um... more reliable model?"

"More expensive model, you mean, right?" John grunts, and ducks down to check underneath. No rust, he notes, just dirty. This one is good. This one is perfect.

Sucker Suit makes a sort of choking noise and goes red, doesn't say anything. John laughs to himself, but keeps his face blank. When the salesman has no response, John jerks his head towards the car and asks, "Can I test drive it?"

He doesn't miss the sour look that ghosts over the man's face, but John's more interested in the car at this point, then annoying cheapskates trying to con a buck from honest, hardworking people. The man nods stiffly and leaves to retrieve the keys.

Twenty minutes later, John is bright-faced and outright grinning. She purrs, loud and powerful, and he loves it. The interior is smooth leather, undamaged, and the steering wheel feels like freedom beneath his hands. She runs kind of shoddy, but with a trained ear, he's already picking up on what's running right and what's not. He's calculating how long it would take to fix it up, get her in top shape, have her perusing the highways like the majestic creature she is. He's not quite sure at what point she became a _she_, but it just feels right in his mind and he takes it as a sign that it was meant to be.

He pulls back into the lot and nods his head, offers out his hand. The man shakes it tentatively, his grip feeble in John's, a sure sign of the type of man he is. But he holds on a few seconds longer to seal the deal.

"You take cash?" he asks, and pulls a wad out of his pocket.

He counts out the allotted amount and forks it over, following the man inside to fill out the paperwork. It's a quick deal, made easier by being paid in full and it's only a few minutes before John is practically skipping his way back across the lot, keys in hand. He stops about fifteen feet off and just looks at her, sleek and black, like a mechanical panther. A 1967 Chevy Impala. SS427. Hard top. Four door. Leather interior. Owner: one John Winchester.

He grins maniacally as he climbs in and fires up the engine, burning rubber as he pulls out of the lot. 


End file.
